Salvation Is Relative
by Idhrenniel the Space Cadet
Summary: We all have our own definition of salvation. But not all of them give us happy endings. Especially not Lottie Nolan when she goes to London.
1. A Most Hasty Departure

Chapter 1

Fat raindrops splatter the carriage windows until I can barely see through them. I had kept the curtains drawn open in the hope that I'd be able to get a fine glimpse of my destination, but it seems that my efforts will be in vain since I can not see a thing outside. Sighing, I keep my gaze to my lap. I'd prefer to read, but my books are securely stowed away in my small trunk with the rest of my meager belongings.

Ever since my father and mother's unfortunate passing I've had precious little money to spare, so my black coat and hat are in dreadful need of replacing and my dark red travel gown is a sorry sight indeed. Even my gloves, which I had once worn to fancy town parties many years ago, have become too small for my hands, and I've had to cut off the fingertips with my Mum's old sewing scissors to get more wear out of them. The only things of value are the ones I am too selfish to sell-my mother's old necklace and decorative hat pin.

The chill is so great that every breath I take can be seen clearly in front of my face, and my hands tremble as I unfold the letter that I'd just received the previous week. It is an invitation from my Aunt Mary Henley, who upon hearing of the loss of both my parents offered me a job working in her sweet shop in London. It's there where I'm headed; leaving my home in the countryside behind for what will hopefully be a more pleasurable existence.

It's about the tenth time I've read this letter in the past hour, so it's almost entirely embedded in my memory. But out of sheer habit, my eyes still skim over the elegant script all the way to the last sentence.

"_Lottie, I will be most delighted if you would reside with me here in my shop, since business is going well and I'll need plenty of help. I do not like the idea of my niece living all alone, so you simply must come to my current lodgings at number eighteen Pudding Lane as soon as you possibly can. Do not tell your driver the direct address, for there is no chance at all that he will know where to find it. I have no doubt that you however, are smart enough. _

_Yours most sincerely, _

_Mary Henley"_

I know not how, but I must report there immediately, lest I lose myself in the strange new city, for I know deep down that my sense of direction is quite poor when in new surroundings. In truth I've never left my little town of Clertsey in my entire life, so all I know of London comes from listening to travelers coming through the inn down the road from my old house.

So far my impression of the place is that one must be wary of it, being full of thieves, beggars, and pickpockets and other such people consumed by greed. I do not see how all city dwellers could be so different from those I knew in Clertsey, but I was assured that it is indeed so. But if there are so many people living in one place, then there must be _some_ sort of chance of there being an honest soul among them.

But now I feel like quite the bundle of nerves as I get nearer to my destination, and I find myself sagging against the back of my seat with my unruly hair shading my face even farther than my hat.

"I'll not be having any trouble," I whisper to myself, closing my eyes and resting my head against the wall of the carriage. "It shan't be too hard to find Aunt Mary at all." I am only trying to comfort myself and I know it. I do not possess a map or a set of directions of any kind, so I can only pray that I run into an honest person to point the way, and I've already been informed that the chance is an unlikely one. It isn't as if I may simple hire a cab, since all the money I saved for my journey must be used to pay for the carriage driver and I could not dally any longer in my home to save more due to the impropriety of it.

But as it is, I know I must grit my teeth and show the proper country pluck that my late father so admired. I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it, and I wouldn't do well to fret anymore beforehand. Listening to the sound of raindrops and my breathing, I drift into a quiet world where I reside alone with the anxious beating of my heart.


	2. No Place Like London

Chapter 2

I must have been fast asleep for the remainder of the journey. When I slowly open my tired eyes, raindrops are no longer slapping the windows, and all I can see are the large amounts of people bustling outside in the streets.

Is this London? My ignorance had never been clearer, and it suddenly occurs to me that I'm in quite the vulnerable position. Being the green country girl that I am, the carriage driver could take me anywhere he wished and I wouldn't be any the wiser. I'm not aware how long I've been asleep. For all I know, I could be anywhere in England by now!

My sudden panic is drowned by the driver's wheezy voice. "'Ere's your stop, Miss Nolan. Right in the midst o' London. I 'ope you'll find your way all right."

I clear my throat nervously. "Actually I was hoping that you'd be able to give me directions to Pudding Lane."

He is silent for a moment. "Can't say I've 'eared of it, Miss," he says, dashing my hopes that I may get through this more easily. "That'll be five shillings, if you please." The scruffy, middle-aged man gets down from his seat and limps over to open the door.

Picking up my purse, I empty it into his outstretched hand as I step out into the street dragging my trunk behind me.

"You have my thanks, sir," I say, but the carriage leaves me standing in the street without another word.

Sighing, I do my best to readjust my hat pin, perch my hat primly upon my head, and curl my hands into fists to hide the sorry condition of my gloves. I know I must still look an awful mess, but it's the best I can di for now. So as I keep a firm grip on the handle of my trunk in an effort to prevent anyone from stealing it, I desperately search the crowded street for a somewhat trustworthy face.

I spy a young woman who looks a comely sight, strolling next to a man I presume is her guardian and wearing a fashionable green gown and matching shawl. It goes well with her beautiful red hair, which I do find myself envying when I think of my own dark tangled locks.

Well she looks nice enough, discreetly greeting those she and her chaperone pass with a kindly shy smile. So with renewed fervor, I drag my trunk behind me as I walk quickly towards her.

"Begging your pardon, Miss!" I cry out as loudly as I dare. The young woman turns to face me, but says nothing. Finally reaching the place where she stands, I find that I am panting so hard that it is difficult to speak. The woman and her escort look at me expectantly, none of us uttering a word as I attempt to catch my breath.

The man raises his bushy dark eyebrows. "Are you quite finished yet?" he inquires crossly. "My fiancée and I have places to be, if that has not occurred to you."

She's going to _marry _him? I must do all I can not to stare. The man looks extremely too old for her in my opinion.

"I-I was wondering," I stutter in spite of myself, "If either of you knew the way to Pudding Lane."

The young woman looks almost fearful. "I confess I do not know of it, she whispers timidly, not quite looking me in the eye. I notice her companion give a curt nod of approval in her direction, but she maintains a sullen expression regardless.

"I do not believe we are able to help you, Miss," the man says silkily, though the girl gives him an icy stare. "You are obviously looking for the residence of someone _much_ more common than we."

"Really," I reply coldly, feeling uneasy and not knowing what else to say. He's just insulted the only family I've got left, and I do not take too kindly to it at all. "And I suppose that being sophisticated comes with the habit of being _stupid_."

The woman claps a hand to her mouth, but her brown eyes are laughing. The man however, has a face as red as an apple. "I'd be careful what I say," he hisses dangerously. "A newly arrived country girl who doesn't know her place is easily done away with here."

How does he know? "Pardon me _sir_," I lie sharply, but I've lived here all my life."

He laughs. "With an accent like yours? Hardly. You can't have been here for an hour as of yet."

I glare at him, but say no more.

"It's lucky we found you, anyway," he continues lazily, adjusting the large gray top hat he wears upon his head. "My fiancée has lately been in need of a servant girl, seeing that her old one's left us a week ago."

"I wonder why," I mutter sarcastically.

He pretends not to hear my little interjection. "If you promise to _shut up_ we may just offer you a place." He thinks to manipulate me, and I'm unsure how to react. The woman catches my eye and quickly shakes her head.

I give her a quizzical look.

Though I cannot hear her, I recognize that her lips are forming words. "Do not except." The desperate look in her eyes send a chill down my spine.

"Terribly sorry but I cannot help you," I call to the man pertly. "I've already got a secure job of my own, thank you very much. I do not have to rely on the charity of such worthless snobs."

"No matter. Come, Henrietta," the man says sternly. The woman-Henrietta- gives me one last encouraging look before the two of them stroll away.

Goodness, people are strange here in London!


	3. It's Empty

Chapter 3

I'm lost. There's no denying it any longer. I've been standing at the side of the street for a fairly long time now, and it's done little to help me find Aunt Mary. And the day won't exactly be young forever now, won't it? It's already late afternoon. Turning my head this way and that, I figure that I have at least half a chance of getting closer to Pudding Lane simply by choosing which direction to walk in.

And what was it the man had said? Only commoners lived there? One end of this street seems much fancier than the other, so I head the opposite way. It seems that the arrogant man helped me after all.

Turning the corner onto a smaller street labeled Fishers Way, I stop and rest a minute. Heaving a trunk along with you is hard work, and the muscles in my arms are screaming in pain.

I cannot help but give a slight grin when I think of how scandalous this is. To think of a young woman, only five and twenty years of age, alone in a strange city without an escort! My mother would have a fit if she knew.

But she's dead. She and my father.

I banish these depressing thoughts from my head. They won't help me any, so I do not think they have any place existing at all. Gritting my teeth in a most unladylike manner, I resume my slow pace, keeping my gaze strait ahead and my face stony.

A harsh wind had picked up, making my cheeks feel raw and my knuckles turn almost red. Still I press on, knowing that my plight will be much worse by nightfall if I'm still without shelter.

I walk for hours, feeling more and more dismal with every step I take. The sky is already becoming pink with the setting sun, and I'm nowhere nearer to Pudding Lane than I was before.

And now I'm beginning to get hungry. I've not had anything to eat at all since before the carriage ride, and my stomach is feeling rather hollow.

As if I did not already _have_ problems at the moment.

Desperate, I grab the shoulder of a little boy who was running passed me. "What's your name, lad?"

"Patrick."

"_Please_ tell me you know the way to number eighteen Pudding Lane," I say anxiously. He stares at me.

"Er… Ma'am? I live near Pudding Lane meself, and number eighteen's been vacant for about a week now. We're you looking to rent it?" He must be mistaken. Aunt Mary sent me the address in her letter, and she's not the sort to misguide me. But still…

"Yes," I say finally. "Would you be so kind as to point the way?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

I follow my companion as he leads me through a dreadful number of twisting alleyways that seem to be teeming with all sorts of rats and stray animals. Plenty of them are dead, and decaying, and their stench makes me feel slightly sick. I confess that I cannot help but grimace at the thought of them.

Patrick grins up at me. "New to the city, are you?"

"Is it that bloody obvious?"

"My young companion grins. "You'll have to get used to 'em if you're going to live here."

"I can hardly wait," I say dryly, carefully avoiding the remains of a dog that is in my path.

After a while we actually travel on decent-looking streets, and there are enough clusters of shops and homes to make one's head spin. Patrick seems to be on good terms with plenty of the people who we see making some last minute shopping before they return to their respective houses for the evening.

"Are we fairly close?" I enquire of the lad.

"Oh, yes!" he replies brightly. "'Tis just over there." He points to the end of the street, and my heart soars with hope.

But the windows are dark. The door is barred, and there's no sign of life save a pair of rats scurrying about on the roof. Aunt Mary isn't here.

Now I must think fast. "Er… Patrick? I'm not sure I quite want to live there."

"The rats getting to you, then?"

"Not quite. I was only under the impression that I was to live with a woman named Mary Henley. Do you know who I'm talking about?" I ask, worried.

"Ms Henley? She's nice." Patrick gives a far away smile. "She used to give me biscuits every time I came by her shop. Used to live there, if that's why you're asking. But she left."

My heart begins to race. "Why?"

"How should I know? No one tells me. I've got to go now, you see. Mum's got us fresh bread for dinner, and I can't be late." Before I can emit any sort of additional plea for help, Patrick sprints in the opposite direction.

And now I find myself standing alone yet again, and though I've reached my goal I'm nowhere near safety at all. Quite the contrary, in fact, I've nowhere to go.

Why did Aunt Mary leave without telling me? She's not one to think this sort of thing amusing. Mayhap it slipped her mind.

But now it's dark, and I'm astray without any shelter to be had. I can only sit atop my trunk and watch wretchedly as each window darkens as everyone turns in for the night. Quickly dragging my trunk to the side of a wall, I take a seat upon it and wrap my coat more tightly upon my shoulders.

But then a thought strikes me. I've not seen any thieves as of yet, but what if they come out at night? And here I am, with my only belongings in plain sight ready to be stolen as I lay sleeping. Thinking quickly, I tie one of my bootlaces to the trunk handle. If anyone tries to take it now, they won't be able to without awakening me first.

I try not to thing of what I'd exactly do when I'd be awake with an angry thief.


	4. The Many Uses of a Hat Pin

Just as a note to prevent confusion, I've edited chapters one and two so they include a mention of Lottie's hat pin.

Chapter 4

The first thing I'm aware of is a pair of voices. Both are distinctly male, though one seems plenty older than his companion. Hardly daring to breathe, I lie on top of my trunk with my eyes screwed shut, hoping that they will think I am not wakeful, and not listening to their unnerving conversation.

"Ye think she's still asleep?"

"Nah. She's out like a light. Won't come to 'till we're on the other side o' London. Now let's see if we could get a look in that nice big box. What do ye think is in it, Fred?"

"Don't care, as long as we can sell it. Careful, now. It's nearly daylight out."

I'm already feeling rather stiff from my awkward position, but now I'm completely tense. Everything I own is in that trunk, and I'm not going to let a load of ruffians take it from me.

I sit up hastily, but I almost immediately regret it, for the moment I am upright I feel weak and dizzy. Maybe it is exhaustion or hunger, but it certainly has me at a disadvantage-seeing that my two assailants are rather large and muscular with enough knives strapped to their belts to supply a small army.

"Oi!" They shout in surprise but immediately draw their weapons. The taller one, a grizzled fellow with greasy hair, holds it near my throat, and my panic intensifies.

In other words, I have hardly any chance at all of being able to properly defend myself. This means there's only once sensible thing to do-flee. As quickly as I can manage, I spring forward, grabbing my trunk handle with one hand and holding my hat in place with the other.

But I've completely forgotten my foolish security measure from the night before. The lace of my left boot is still tied to the trunk, and I trip straight away in a heap on the street only a few inches away.

The men can not hide their mirth, and I'm sure that one could hear their booming laughter at least two streets over. The shorter of the two grabs me by the collar of my coat, and hoists me up to face him.

"Now I'll just make this plain an' simple," he whispers. "Ye can't run, and we want that nice box ye've got there. So if ye hand it to us without a fuss, we won't be hurting you at all. Scream… and ye won't be living through the hour."

I want to scream, but my fear is so great that I cannot make a sound at all. But I have enough dignity to violently shake my head no, and I can see the obvious displeasure on the men's faces.

I must fight back. It seems quite silly really, seeing that they are armed and I am not, but the situation seems to have become much more life-threatening.

But my hat is still perched on top of my head, sporting the green and silver hat pin perfectly within my reach. And this gets my mind working. If hat pins are sharp enough to puncture thick fabric, then what else could they damage?

Pulling the slender hat pin out of my hat and gripping it firmly in my right hand, I find I have more courage than before. "Get away," I spit venomously, though I can see it will do no good.

Almost without thinking, I plunge the hat pin into the shorter man's shoulder. Crimson blood seeps out the moment I withdraw it, staining his grubby shirt. Screaming in surprise, he stumbles back into his companion clutching his wound and scrambling away.

His companion however, isn't so daunted. "Jus' try that again," he shrieks, and swipes at me with his knife. It grazes my arm, but I slash back with my own newfound weapon and there is yet another splatter of crimson, this time across his forehead.

Slumping forward, he hits the street with a resounding smack, and I immediately look for his companion. He seems to have gone somewhere else to nurse his shoulder, so I turn my attention back to my fallen assailant.

It is then that I am struck with a sudden revulsion. I've just attacked two people, who were originally going to leave me alone after they stole my things. What if they had families, friends…? The thought makes tears come to my eyes, and I wonder how his wife would break it to his children that he wouldn't ever be coming back. Losing a father is terrible, and I may have just inflicted that pain on someone else.

I cannot bear to look at the blood that stains the street near the body, and it takes all my resolve to wipe off my hat pin in the man's trousers and turn away. I cannot be seen here for fear of getting caught.

Securing the hat pin safely back in my travel hat, I grab my trunk and leave Pudding Lane in silence.

By now other streets are beginning to slowly awake. On the next street over I already spy a shoe shop and tailor that have already started their business, and a few people are walking about. The buildings look much more dark and forbidding when contrasted by the sunrise, but no one seems to care other than I.

The throng becomes steadily larger, as the time reaches normal work hours, and soon I'm jostled by passers by quite often.

"Excuse me," I inquire of a small girl with her pale hair worn in two braids. "Where am I? I'm afraid I do not see a sign."

She laughs, skipping off towards her mother. "You're on Fleet Street, silly!"

"Thank you," I say wearily. I grow tired of asking strange people for information.

But as I gaze across the road, my heart nearly stops. I see the man with the wounded shoulder, obviously still in pain from his posture, speaking with a constable.

I must run. I vow never to harm another like I did him and his companion, but I have no interest in being jailed for the offenses I did commit.

Tearing forward with my trunk clanking behind me, I look wildly about for any place to hide myself, somewhere where there aren't many people going.

And I spy the shop, right next to the street light. It looks like a sort of bakery, but no customer can be seen there at all, so I doubt that is where they will head now. Opening the dark door cautiously, I slink inside, hoping not to be noticed.

Hehe… a cliffie! Or rather, an excuse to have a little more time before I embarrass myself trying to write canon characters.


	5. The Worst Pies In London

Chapter 5

The room would have been dark if it were not for the sunlight streaming through the windows from above the curtains. It seems to be completely deserted-perhaps the owner of the shop is away for some reason. Peering timidly out of the window, I can still glimpse the wounded man and the constable outside.

I cannot be noticed, not now! I sit on the floor next to my trunk, with my back pressed against the wall, praying for them to pass by. Even so, I feel terribly conspicuous, due to how my breathing seems so easily heard in the emptiness surrounds me.

It's getting rather cold in here. Suppressing the urge to shiver, I quickly rub my hands together to keep my fingers warm. The hollow feeling in my stomach does not help me feel any better either, but I do not emit a single sound, regardless of my racing heart.

But I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the next room, and I let out a slight gasp in spite of myself. Glancing about desperately, I see that the emptiness that once worked in my favor will now become quite a hindrance.

There is nowhere for me to hide. I am short enough that if I try extremely hard I might be able to hide in some dark corner, but there's still matter of my trunk. There's no hope of concealing it behind _anything_.

And the footsteps abruptly stop. Venturing a timid glance upwards, I am face to face with a woman sporting a dark and intricate dress and standing a few feet away from me with a curious look upon her face. Her hair is, if that is even possible, more unruly than my own, and hangs in tangled curls about her face.

"What's all this?" her accent is quite heavy, but I am relieved to see she looks more curious than angered as she gestures to my luggage and myself.

What am I supposed to say? It is not as if I may tell her that I've killed a man and am on the run from his friend. "Er… I'm Lottie. Lottie Nolan. And I'm… hiding," I say uneasily, not quite registering what man she is talking about.

The woman gives a slight grimace. "Stay as _long_ as you want to, dear."

"Thank you," I reply softly. "May I ask your name?"

"Oh, I'm Mrs. Lovett." She pulls me by the arm, steering my into a chair that creaks under my weight. "Now would you like a pie while you're waiting? Of course you would." She gestures towards a plate that sits on the table on front of me, laden with the most disgusting and sickly looking meat pies that I've seen in my life. Whatever hunger I've had leaves me, and I find myself thankful for my lack of money.

"I'm afraid I cannot afford any," I say calmly.

"Oh, it's quite all right, Lottie," Mrs. Lovett replies jovially. "Take one anyway. It won't do any harm." She near thrusts a pie into my hands, and it begins to crumble slightly at the sudden movement.

The very last thing I wish to do is eat it, but if I do not want to be impolite I have very little choice in the matter. Staring dejectedly at my lap, I quietly take a small and timid bite out of the repulsive thing.

I immediately fight the urge to gag. A terrible taste fills every inch of my mouth, as if there is more mold than meat. I swallow it as quickly as I can, to prevent the horrid taste from permanently settling on my tongue. Nevertheless I try my best to keep a polite expression even though I've been having very little success so far.

Upon seeing the look on my face, Mrs. Lovett gives a small laugh. "'Tis all right, Lottie, these are the worst pies in London. Didn't you wonder why no one comes in here?" She pours me a cup of ale, and I look at it warily.

"Drink it up. It's better than the pies at any rate."

I take a careful sip, and feel a tiny bit better. Mrs. Lovett sits across from me, resting her chin on her gloved hands. "So what got you engaged to that man?"

Oh God, she wants answers. I take another, and much larger, sip of ale but set the cup down quickly so Mrs. Lovett won't see how much my hands are shaking. I know not what to say, but I reckon that silence will sound much more suspicious the longer it lasts.

"Mum needed me to have an income of my own to help support us," I improvise. "Money was awful hard to come by. And my fiancé possessed quite a small fortune. But he's a right pig, make no mistake of that."

Mrs. Lovett seems to buy my story, giving me a rather sympathetic look. "So you ran away from him?"

I'm about to say the affirmative, but a sudden plan stops me. If I could only put word out that I am looking for Aunt Mary…

"Not quite, actually. I have an aunt, you see, who owns a sweet shop. She offered to take me in as her helper. I was heading to her place, but it was deserted when I arrived. I was only wondering where she could have gone when I happened upon my fiancé whom I'd been avoiding. And I'm still trying to avoid him, as you see, Mrs. Lovett."

It's not a bad story, though I admit it is a rather untruthful one. But it isn't exactly like I may tell any civilian that I've just killed a man less than an hour ago. Never mind that it was an accident. The courts are not very well known for their compassion here, I've heard.

"What's your aunt's name, dearie?" Mrs. Lovett asks thoughtfully.

"Mary Henley," I reply, hardly daring to hope. "Used to live on Pudding Lane, she did."

"Can't say I've heard the name, but I do remember a sweet shop on Pudding Lane. Quite a busy place," she says, and it almost looks as if she is a bit jealous. "Plenty of customers. Can't really see how it could simply close down like that."

"If business was so good, then why does no one know where she's gone?"

"I don't know, dear, I don't know. I'll keep my ears open for any news of her at any rate," Mrs. Lovett says kindly. "Where are you staying in the meantime?"

"I know not," I say. It seems that I shall have to lie a bit more today. "If I return home I'll be forced into marriage."

"Well I suppose you could stay here," Mrs. Lovett muses. "If you don't mind helping me make the worst pies in London, I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

It's certainly not the life I've been picturing with Aunt Mary, but it's much better than sleeping out on the streets. And Mrs. Lovett seems an agreeable lady for the most part.

"I'd be most grateful," I reply.

"Then let's get you all settled here then," she say s briskly. "Can you carry your trunk?"

I nod.

"All right, just come this way." We both rise, and after I grab my trunk I am swiftly led into Mrs. Lovett's living quarters. It's not much, but it's better than what I'm used to living in so I don't say a word. Instead I let my host prattle on about this and that, smiling and nodding when I deem it appropriate. Lack of customers certainly makes one quite talkative when given the chance!

"And over there is the old barber shop," she explains to me.

_Smile and nod. _

"People think it's haunted."

_Smile and nod. _

"The judge deported him for life, the poor man," she says softly. "Just to have a go at his wife."

"Pardon?" I'm glad that I'd been listening, since smiling and nodding would have made the situation quite awkward at this point.

"The barber, dear! Benjamin Barker, his name was. He was exiled on false charges. And he was beautiful…" She says the last part almost to herself, and I cannot help but notice her cheeks flush at the thought of him.

I cannot help but feel sorry for Benjamin Barker, whoever he was. Here I am, a murderer, getting a home free, while this innocent man is cut off from his family and serving a sentence that he does not deserve. It makes me tremble guiltily at the thought.

But we soon leave the entrance to the barber shop behind for other rooms. "Now I don't exactly have a spare room that will suit you, dear," Mrs. Lovett says absently.

"It's quite all right," I reply. "Just put me in a closet somewhere and it will suffice."

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Well I'm sure we'll think of some place to put you, Lottie. It's nice to have someone else about the place for a change."

If only you knew how awful I really am, Mrs. Lovett. If only you knew.

**A/N: Hehe… little Lottie lives a life on lies… and the plot will thicken! )**


	6. One Sad Story

Chapter 6

It seems that Mrs. Lovett was perfectly willing to let me live in a closet. She's given me a rather spacious one just off the hallway, with just enough space to squeeze in a pallet and my trunk. I must say I do not mind. It's quite cozy, with plenty of old pillows and quilts on my makeshift bed and a small candle sitting on the top of my trunk to illuminate the place. I've even hung an old mirror on one of the walls to aid me when I do my hair each morning.

As it is, I have plenty of time to sleep late in the mornings, seeing our lack of customers and all. Normally I'll awaken just before eleven o'clock, stumbling down the stairs just in time for a formidable, or rather formidably revolting meal. I truly do not quite understand what _possessed _Mrs. Lovett to open a pie shop at all. Well it's the thought that counts, I suppose, and I'm indeed thankful for my good fortune of finding a place to stay here.

This morning hasn't started out any different at all, and now that it's late afternoon I'm wearing an old brown apron as I stand next to Mrs. Lovett in the kitchen. She's finally attempting to show me how to make her notorious concoctions, though I know for certain that I can only take as much advice as I dare if I want to cook anything remotely edible. 

"Now when the dough's all nice and rolled into this particular shape you've got to fill it with something. Won't have any substance otherwise, you see. And the price of meat being what it is you need to be creative." She pulls out a rather large and plain bowl full of… well… God knows what.

"_That_?" I ask incredulously, just for clarification. If the pie I took a bite out of on the day of my arrival was full of anything like this, I believe I'd throw up most of my dinner from yesterday. It's rather greenish and chunky, with a smell not unlike that of sour milk.

"Of course, dearie," she says, turning a blind eye to my revolted expression. "Now will you get some vegetables and chop 'em up for me? They're over in that cabinet." She gestures vaguely to her right, and though I cannot truly comprehend how vegetables are even supposed to be in meat pies, I scamper over to the correct cupboard and throw it open.

Apart from a couple of dusty old plates that look as if they've seen much better days, there's really nothing there.

I glance back at Mrs. Lovett. "We seem to be out."

She crosses over to look at the empty space. "So we are. You wouldn't mind going over to the market and getting some more vegetables, would you dear?"

Me? Go out in the streets alone? I've no way of knowing if I'm still being sought after! "Er… I'm not entirely certain if that's the best idea. I…"

"Lottie, the man who wants to be your fiancé can't come around here every day. People have businesses to run! The market is just around the corner- turn left outside and you'll find it. I'm sure you can handle this easily enough." She presses a small and worn purse into my unwilling hands. "See you in a tick, dearie."

I attempt to protest further, but no sound seems to come from my throat and my host shoves me out the door and closes it behind me.

Dejectedly, I begin strolling down the side of the street. It bustles with people now, but I make no eye contact with anyone. If someone sees your eyes you're more likely to be remembered, and I'm none too keen on being recognized by anyone just yet.

It does not matter. No one stops to speak to me anyway. I'm much too plain to be noticed-plain and pale. Nothing _extraordinary _in the least.

The shops are crowded with hopeful buyers, and I'm quick to find the correct place to wait in line. But as I draw near I notice the condition of all the vegetables that are yet to be sold are most horribly poor. The dingy shelf is full of rotting carrots, shriveled peas that look as if they should have been tossed in the rubbish bin long ago, and a head of lettuce that gives off a rather strong odor.

I cringe. From what I've seen of Mrs. Lovett's pie-making process so far, I know she will most likely not hesitate for a minute to use these as ingredients. But at least it makes it slightly easier to choose without caring. Making my purchase with the meager amount of money that I'd been given, I leave the place with my bag of food held as far away from my face as possible as to not smell the stench as often.

"Pardon!" a clear high voice sounds behind me, accompanied by the sound of rushing footsteps.

I turn in surprise. It's the girl from the day I arrived in London. Henrietta, the one who was going to marry that awful man. Her dress is light pink today, but no less fashionable, and her smile looks much more genuine than it did before. 

"You're that girl I saw a while ago, aren't you? The one looking for Pudding Lane."

"I'm astonished you remember me," I reply wryly. "I do not generally leave such a lasting impression, as it were."

"Oh, but you were quite witty, I think," she gushes, almost too breathlessly for my taste. "You put old Charles in his place, make no mistake of that! He was ill-tempered for the rest of the day."

"You mean your fiancé?"

A disgusted look crosses her face. "I suppose," she sighs. "Though I do not find him agreeable at all. I only like when he's angry, because he leaves me alone with my own family and goes away."

"He did seem to be quite rude, didn't he?" I grin. "But I take it that you've been able to get away from him today?"

She gives a small smirk. "I told him that Judge Turpin had sent for him. Went right off, he did. Oh, and how silly of me, I failed to introduce myself. I'm Henrietta Fitzwalter, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"It's quite nice to meet you too. I'm Lottie Nolan. But who on earth is this Judge Turpin character? Is he important in some way?"

Henrietta stares at me as if I'd just proclaimed that the city was being overrun by vampires. "You've been here for at least a month and you have no idea who he is?" She asks, as we walk slowly back towards Fleet Street.

I give her a quizzical look. "Should I?"

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Judge Turpin's one of the richest and most powerful man here," she says. "If he wants to see you, you generally have to go to him or consequences will be dreadful."

I smile sardonically. "I don't suppose _he_ has to eat moldy carrots, does he?"

Henrietta giggles uncontrollably. "That is one way of putting it." But then her kind face gets serious again. "But no one dares to cross him, mark my words," she continues, her breathless voice lowering to a whisper. "I've heard he's sent many an innocent man into exile just for his own whim." She shudders, but I can tell she likes a juicy story like that.

But what had Mrs. Lovett said? _"The barber, dear! Benjamin Barker, his name was. He was exiled on false charges…_ _The judge deported him for life, the poor man," she says softly. "Just to have a go at his wife." _

"You mean like… Benjamin Barker?" I inquire cautiously. "He used to live above Mrs. Lovett's place."

Henrietta's face turns pale. "_That's _a particularly nasty incident, if I've ever heard of one. Of course I was a bit young at the time. But my mother and father were there no doubt of that." Glancing about her, her voice became soft once more. "Are you needed anywhere now? We could stop and eat somewhere and I could tell you."

Thinking of how nice it would be to delay Mrs. Lovett from putting these terrible vegetables into the pies, I reply that I'm free to go with her. Who would turn down an opportunity to avoid having to eat Mrs. Lovett's cooking?

"Oh, good!" Henrietta gushes, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the nearest restaurant across the road. We seat ourselves in the far corner of the room, and I can tell my acquaintance is already nearly bursting with the desire to spread a bit of gossip.

"Now you want to know about Benjamin Barker," she murmurs thoughtfully. "I wouldn't have been able to tell you much at all if my father wasn't also a member of the court. He's a lawyer, if not a biased one. And when I was six, I heard him talking to my older brother William about his work."

Well I hope it wasn't too bad, seeing that she'd heard it at such a tender age.

"It seems that Judge Turpin had arrested a rather successful barber on charges that were so obviously false that it was completely ludicrous that no one spoke up about it. Evidently the judge liked Mr. Barker's wife. _A lot_."

She pauses, waiting for a reaction. After seeing my worried face, she seems satisfied enough and continues.

"Now as far as I know, Benjamin Barker is out in Australia somewhere now, if he hasn't died yet. But what's truly terrible is what happened to his family. His wife was quite secluded after that, staying at home with her young child. But the judge still wanted her for himself, and I bet you he felt mighty confident in himself once he got rid of Mr. Barker. Mrs. Barker would have none of it, though. I guess exiling a loved one isn't exactly the best way to earn affection."

"But one day the Beadle Bamford—he's like the judge's assistant of some sort, I'm not entirely sure—came to her and said that the judge felt guilty for the whole affair. He tricked her into going to Judge Turpin's house with him."

I interrupt her. "You mean she just left her child?"

"I suppose so."

I sigh. The _nerve_ of some people. I hope that there was someone to watch the poor child.

"But anyway," Henrietta continues impatiently, "They arrived at the house, but it turned out that it was really a masked ball. Mrs. Barker got terribly lost, and then—and then…" she wavers, and her cheeks flush pink in embarrassment.

"What?" I inquire.

"I—I'm not sure I quite know how to say this… but… he – the judge I mean… had his way with her."

I gasp. "You mean…?"

Henrietta nods mutely.

"Oh my God," I whisper hoarsely. "Right in the ballroom?"

"Yes."

We lapse into an uneasy silence that was only broken by the waiter asking us what we wished to eat.

One hearty meal of pastries and soup later, we exit the shop and head once again towards Fleet Street. It's quite dark now, seeing that it is after sundown, and the streets are almost deserted.

Henrietta gives me a sidelong glance. "Did you ever find Pudding Lane?"

"Yes, but I now reside on Fleet Street. Right in Mrs. Lovett's shop, if you must know."

"Thank you, it'll be much easier to find you now. Can you find your way home from here?"

I nod the affirmative, and we exchange cheerful good-byes. As Henrietta strolls back down the street, I manage a small smile. As eager and abnormally happy as she is, I feel as if I've found another friend in this strange city.

But as Mrs. Lovett's shop comes into view, I find myself saddened by the horrid turn of events surrounding the place I now call home. I feel an indescribably large amount of remorse for the whole thing.

You _deserve to be jailed, not Mr. Barker. _You've_ committed murder after all. Just because it was a month ago does not mean that it is any less wrong. _

My stomach twists with a sudden surge of guilt, for the life I forcibly took and all the lies I've told just to save myself from blame, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes.

But even with my blurred vision I am still able to glimpse a dark figure heading for Mrs. Lovett's shop.

Strange. I suppose he's new here, since only people newly arrived would make the mistake of going there for food. But there seems more of a purpose in his stride as he slips through the door.

Curiously, I follow the man in silence, and enter the shop myself.


	7. A Handsome Vengeful Man

_Salutations! The time has come… I am entering actual movie plot! I want to give thanks to any reader that has had enough time on their hands to actually read through all this. You guys are awesome!!!!!_

_I just have one thought here. I know how I envision my OCs, but it's my experience that everyone pictures a character slightly differently. If anyone could send me some sort of picture or photograph to tell me how you picture everyone, that would be great. Thanks!_

Chapter 7

I can already hear Mrs. Lovett's voice as I step over the threshold, and it nearly drowns out the sound of the old bell overhead. If there's one thing I can deduce from living with her, it is that she's fully prepared to talk any potential customer completely to death. The poor man does not even bother to respond to her continuous chatter, keeping his stony gaze away from her.

The lights are quite dim this evening, but I can still see his face in what little light there is. He does look frightfully handsome now that I think about it, and my heart skips a beat. Though a bit bedraggled, he has the most intense eyes I've yet to see, and there is a small shock of white in is otherwise dark hair.

"Oh, there you are, Lottie dear—I'll take those bags for you." It seems that Mrs. Lovett has finally taken notice of me, and hastily takes my bag from my hands and empties the contents in a heap on the table.

She's already following her disgusting recipe, chopping things in no particular order at all and rolling moldy dough until everything looks as if it is one large filthy mess. Her prattling continues so quickly that I wonder how she ever has the time to breathe.

She near shoves a pie on the table on front of him, and I cannot help but pity him as he takes a tentative mouthful of the stuff. Almost immediately he spits it out, and I cannot say I blame him.

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Lovett sighs. "You might want ale with that, love." She turns to me, where I stand idly next to the table. "You won't mind terribly if I asked you to go over and get this nice man some ale, would you? There's a dear."

"God knows he needs it." I mutter, and head over to fill a cup for him. The ale is stored in the next room, but I still can hear Mrs. Lovett talking about the unfortunate fate of the barber who once lived upstairs. She obviously treats this as a juicy bit of gossip, and from what I can make out, knows even more about the affair than even Henrietta did.

And she is a little less discreet about the subject of… well… what happened to Mrs. Barker. My cheeks flush at the thought.

It seems as well that the man is offended by this, too. As I walk back into the room, he gives a sudden start in anger.

"Did no one help her?" His tense voice drips with fury, and I take an involuntary step back. Giving me a quick glance, Mrs. Lovett motions for me to set the cup on the table on front of him. Each step I take hesitant and small, I set the cup down with shaking hands. I get no reaction from our customer.

But Mrs. Lovett's eyes widen in near disbelief. "So it _is_ you? Benjamin Barker?"

He turns to glance at her sharply. "No, not Barker. That man is dead. It's Todd, now. Sweeney Todd. And he will have his revenge."

Revenge? Oh, God, please don't let such a handsome man be a lunatic!

On the contrary to my sudden misgivings, Mrs. Lovett seems practically unfazed. "Very well, very well. Why don't you just come sit in here for a while, love?" she asks, motioning to her own messy parlor. "I hardly get _any_ company nowadays, you know."

What am _I_, an extra rolling pin? But it gradually occurs to me that if Mrs. Lovett fancied Mr. Barker before his exile, she may harbor feelings for him still. Well it doesn't stop me from being jealous, make no mistake of that!

"Oh, and Lottie dear, would you clean up Mr. Todd's plate for us?" Mrs. Lovett calls cheerfully as she and Mr. Todd disappear into the next room.

Oh, yes! Lottie Nolan, the ever so attentive assistant has been demoted. There's no way _she_ can stand against this… this… vengeful lunatic!

A _very_ _handsome_ vengeful lunatic…

Good God, I need to get a grip upon myself!

Gritting my teeth and suppressing an irritated retort, I pick up the plate and dump the pie out of sight, wiping the dirty pottery with a stray dishrag that I find lying on the table.

As soon as I am able, I invite myself into the parlor, but it seems that Mrs. Lovett has already whisked our guest somewhere else. And if this man was once Benjamin Barker, I have a good guess where that might be.

Slowly ascending the stairs to the old barber shop, I can hear voices above. So it seems that I am correct. Now I suddenly feel quite conspicuous, hearing the sound of my boots creaking on the rickety flight of steps.

Cautiously, I open the door a little peering inside. Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett stand in the empty room, surrounded by scattered bits of furniture and peeling wallpaper. And in Mr. Todd's hand is a rather lethal looking razor.

Neither of them take any notice of my presence, and I slip in quietly behind them. The tender look that Mr. Todd gives to the blades in his hand makes my heart twist.

"Friends, you'll soon drip precious rubies…" his voice is soft, but perfectly clear in my ears. I take a step closer, enthralled.

But my foot hits a rather creaky floorboard and the sound echoes about the room with about as much grace as a sudden wrong note in the middle of a minuet.

Mrs. Lovett gives a start. "Oh, haha, I didn't hear you coming there, Lottie dear. Isn't it about time you turned in for the night?"

This time I find my voice. "I'm capable of staying up as long as I bloody want too," I say flatly. "I'm not a child."

"Oh, sorry." She sounds disappointed. I guess she won't get Mr. Todd all to herself after all.

"Leave me." We are both startled by Mr. Todd's harsh command. Reluctantly, Mrs. Lovett turns on her heel and exits the room, but I hang back. I know not why, really. But something wills me to stay, and stay I do, though it is obvious that my presence is lost on our guest as he stares out of the window.

More carefully this time, I step forward, succeeding in being considerably quieter than before. Striding on with a bit more confidence, I begin crossing to barren room.

"I told you to leave."

I stop dead in my tracks and glance at Mr. Todd nervously, but he hasn't even moved his head. I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "I—I …"

"What do you want?" he seems annoyed, and preoccupied.

I take a deep breath to calm myself. "I'm sorry. About what happened, I mean. It must have been terrible for you…" I trail off, at a complete loss for words and mortified that I've been babbling. Here is the man that has caused even more guilt in my mind ever since I compared his fate to mine. I feel my throat tense, and tears well up in my eyes, but I keep them at bay the best I can.

"Go. I do not need your pity, Miss Lottie."

The very force of his gaze is enough to send me meekly leaving for my own quarters.

Sitting on my cot in the tiny closet that I call home, I change into my old white nightgown and begin brushing through my hair. Getting through the tangles hurts my scalp a bit, but I remember my parents saying brushing hair one hundred strokes helped it look bore becoming. And if I am to impress Mr. Todd, I'll be in sore need of it.

My thoughts turn to our strange guest. What sort of man refers to lethal inanimate objects as friends? What exactly does he mean by revenge? And why on earth must he be so fine looking?

Blowing out my candle, I say back in bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.


	8. What Are Friends For?

Chapter 8

I awaken to the unwelcome sound of insistent tapping upon my door. Opening my eyes with difficulty, I mumble what I hope to be a coherent assurance that I am indeed awake.

The door is pulled open a crack. "It's time to get up, love. We'll be needing to get business started now." It's Mrs. Lovett—there's no way to mistaken that voice.

I sit up wearily, stretching my arms and letting out a slight yawn. "You've never cared about the time we started before," I grumble.

"Oh, stop that moping! We have an extra person in this building now, you know!"

I absolutely resent people who can be that cheerful in the morning.

"I'll leave you to get ready, dearie. Breakfast'll be done in a tick." I hear the sound of her footsteps disappearing quickly down the hall.

So it seems that Mr. Todd's presence _still_ has Mrs. Lovett treating me as an imbecile. Gritting my teeth and lighting my stump of a candle to see in the dark of the closet, I slowly stand and don the best dress I own. It's a light violet, with black trimmings and corset, and it used to be my mother's.

Not that I am trying to _impress_ anyone, of course! God knows I'd never do that. I just want to look nice today, and there's no harm in that, is there?

At least that is what I tell myself.

Running my brush through my tangled locks, I hurriedly pin it up to keep it off my neck and tie it with a ribbon. Staring at myself in the mirror, I find appearance quite worrying. There are dark circles under my eyes betraying my listless sleep, and a faint blemish is beginning to form on my forehead.

Groaning inwardly, I step out of my closet and head to the kitchen. I do hope that Mr. Todd won't think I'm quite as awful as I believe.

Not that I _like_ him or anything, seeing his apparent insanity and all.

Luckily for me, only Mrs. Lovett is in the kitchen busily preparing some sort of mysterious substance in a bowl that looks suspiciously like the mold that used to be in corner of the parlor ceiling. I sit down at the table resting my chin in my hands, making a mental not to try to have breakfast out.

"Where's Mr. Todd?" I inquire curiously.

"Upstairs getting ready. I don't think he got any shut-eye at all, poor He certainly needed the sleep."

I rub a tired eye. "And I do not?"

Mrs. Lovett chooses to ignore my sullen comment. "Anyways, Mr. Todd and I are going out to market today. Going to eye up the competition and the like."

"Whatever do you mean?"

Mrs. Lovett sounds a bit strained. "Mr. Todd is setting up a barber shop, see. He'll need to know about any other barbers that might make him lose business."

Well I could think of worse things to do in the morning. "When are we leaving?"

"Er… Lottie dear? It's only Mr. Todd and I who are going."

"Oh?" I interject angrily. "And why might that be?" I already feel my cheeks flushing in anger. Am I to be ordered about like some small child now that Mrs. Lovett is paying attention to someone else? I was prepared to think that what she said last night would only happen once, but I see that it will not be the case.

"Someone needs to be watching the shop. Besides, on a busy day like this one, there's more chance that your supposed fiancé will be lurking about. I'd hate to have you get into trouble."

"As if," I mutter.

"What was that, love? I didn't quite hear you." But before Mrs. Lovett can question me further, we hear the sound of footsteps echoing outside the room. Mr. Todd trudges into the room with about as much enthusiasm as a man on his way to his execution.

"Good morning!" Mrs. Lovett sounds almost triumphant. "Are you ready to go?"

He replies with only a terse nod. This seems good enough for Mrs. Lovett, who proceeds to do what she does best nowadays—shoving people out the door. Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett disappear from my view without as much as a good-bye to me.

It isn't as though I'm competing with Mrs. Lovett. We are simply having a small dispute, is all, not a fight over a man for goodness sakes! Even if we were I wouldn't stand a chance. Look how she's already left me in the dust.

Resigned to a most uneventful day, I lean back in my chair and rest my booted feet off the table and let black thoughts fill my head.

But the bell sounds, and in surprise, I fall out of the chair with a crash. How on earth do I have a customer? God, I haven't any meat pies to sell!

Standing and facing the door, I am face to face with none other than Henrietta Fitzwalter.

She gasps in delight. "Oh, good, it is you! I've been having difficulty finding your house."

I pull up a chair for her. "Well sit down. I've no one else to talk to today; everyone else is at market."

Henrietta gives me a sympathetic look. "I'm glad I came, then. It must be frightfully dull here on your own. But why did you not go with them?"

"They didn't want me to. Don't ask me why."

Henrietta looks at me in astonishment. Is that the sole reason? Goodness, Lottie, I thought you smarter than that! What's to keep you from going anyway?"

I feel sheepish. Of course, I could. If I am trying to rebel against Mrs. Lovett it's the ideal thing to do, really. "Will you come with me, Henrietta?"

"I should hope so," she replies jovially. "Seeing that I plan to take you regardless. But you shan't be going in that thing." She gestures at my dress.

"What's wrong with it? It's my best one!"

"Young ladies of style don't go about wearing things like that!" Henrietta scoffs. "And we simply need to do something about your hair. Let me help you. Are there any other dresses in this house at all?"

"None but Mrs. Lovett's," I reply grimly. "And she's a good deal taller than I."

"We'll make do." My friend and I hurry off to Mrs. Lovett's room, where I know she keeps a wardrobe full of clothing. I must confess that I haven't played dress-up since I was a little lass, but I still find the prospect of looking slightly nicer quite exciting. And Henrietta's stylish enough for me to trust her judgment.

As we fling open the large oak wardrobe, the results are dismal. The dresses all look dark, similar, and way too big for me.

"Ah, well…" Even Henrietta is at a loss for words.

"It's all right. I did warn you," I say. "Here." I begin rooting through the mounds of discarded accessories that line the bottom, sorting through all sorts of hats and things.

And my hand brushes against a small package. "What's this?"

Henrietta leans over with interest. Pulling the parcel out where we can see it better, we tear it open with little care as to its contents. But what contents there are as we lift the lid away!

There is a whole pile of lovely dresses on front of us in plenty of light pastel shades. Henrietta looks at them with the sort of expression of a child in a sweet shop.

"Good Lord," she breathes. "You realize what this is, Lottie? Fine material to be sure. The fashion from over a decade ago. It's in very good condition for being tucked away this long, I'd say. Rough around the hem, but still quite nice."

"Then should I…"

Henrietta gives me a look. "Wear them? Of course! It would make quite a statement wearing it, a sort of 'back to the past,' if you will."

It takes a while to choose exactly which one, but soon I'm sporting a light pink frock mainly because it proved to be long enough on me to hide the sorry state of my boots. Even Henrietta admits that there's little one can do about my hair, but we find a bonnet that covers it nicely, and I must admit it doesn't look as bad.

Not to mention that it shades my face enough to hide the blemish.

Stepping back, Henrietta gives a satisfied smile as she gives her handiwork a once-over. "Now you'll be a comely figure out there make no mistake. Let's go."

All too happy, we link arms and exit the house and start down the busy street outside.


	9. False Elexirs and Strange Mistakes

AARRGGHH!! I'm sorry I haven't updated for so long! But between having the flu and writing for school I've been busy. But thankfully, I actually have chapter nine now. If anyone's still interested in reading this, kudos to you. 

Chapter 9

It's quite busy on market day. If you are accustomed to the streets being full of people on any other day of the week, then you'd be utterly surprised to find that the amount almost doubles on a day like today. Almost everyone and his friends are out and about, making it quite easy to lose oneself in the rush of the crowd.

I am content to trail alongside Henrietta as she stops to glance at every other pretty gown she sees for sale. God knows she can afford plenty more of that sort of stuff than I. But I thankfully have no real need of them. Certainly it is quite nice to wear pretty things, but for me it is not a necessity. 

"Do you not wish to buy anything?" Henrietta asks me quizzically. "There is plenty to pick from this week, to be sure." 

"It's quite alright," I reply jovially. "I've no money to spend as it were. Carry on, Henrietta. I'm fine just looking."

We do carry on at quite the meandering pace, but my friend insists, in disregard to my protests, on purchasing me a small beaded bracelet. 

"Oh do be a dear and wear it today," she beseeches me, as I reluctantly slide it onto my wrist. "It looks simply fine with your dress and I cannot have my friends going out to market without having something for their trouble."

Indeed it does look fine, with intricate beadwork that, according to the wizened old vendor that sold it to us, came from India. Whether these claims were true or false I do not know, and I admit I do not question it. 

As we draw steadily nearer to the busier streets I begin to glance this way and that in a sudden apprehension. It would be quite hard for Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd to spot me in my getup and large bonnet shading my face, but I realize that one slip-up in their presence could mean my discovery. 

All I can do is keep close to my cheerful friend and pray that she does not say my name too loudly. Which, I remind myself, may be a problem when one thinks of _her_ disposition. 

Henrietta takes little notice of my apparent silence. She, along with a great portion of the crowd, is edging closer to a rather gaudy platform where a young boy stands beating a large drum to gain attention. He looks cheerful enough, about the same age as the boy Patrick that I met so long ago. But something seems… off. I'm not quite sure what, but I have this unmistakable feeling that something is not quite right about his living conditions. 

Upon a closer inspection of the boy as he begins a rather valiant attempt to sell a sort of product that reverses hair loss, I notice the bandages on his hands. The boy's had something happen to him, make no mistake of that, and it makes my skin crawl. 

I lean over and whisper in Henrietta's ear. "That child's hands… just look at them." My friend makes an appropriate grimace of sympathy, but says nothing in response. Her attention is focused ahead of her, where it appears that someone is challenging this boy's claims about his product. I cannot see who they are, but I confess I do not blame them. The apparent miracle of the merchandise seems a bit far fetched to me. 

Out steps another person on the platform who introduces himself as a Mr. Pirelli, one who looks much more suited to the terribly flashy place with his garish blue attire and ridiculous accent. I pay little heed to his words. One like him takes too much care in appearance to ever be too intelligent otherwise. It is only when someone else steps up from the surrounding crowd when I nearly jump out of my skin. 

It's Mr. Todd. As stone-faced as ever, challenging the ridiculous man to a sort of contest. I must say I am cheering for him. 

The contest commences with a great deal of silence from Mr. Todd and an even greater deal of bragging from Mr. Pirelli. 

"Do you really believe that this man shaved the Pope?" I whisper to Henrietta, as the obnoxious man claims just that. 

"I doubt it," she whispers back in an undertone. "I suppose that the Pope would wish his barber to be a bit more… well… holy."  
I grimace. "Well he's making a holy show of himself, make no mistake of that!" 

We snicker, but hold our hands on front of our faces so we will not bring unwanted attention to ourselves. Though I hold a bit of contempt for those who try to adhere to the small gestures that are supposedly ladylike, I hold my own motive of secrecy that compels me to do it anyway. 

The contest itself lasts mere minutes. The obnoxious man has been boasting so much that he is too slow with his shaving, and Mr. Todd ends up the victor. 

I cheer, and Henrietta gives me a curious glance. "Do you know him?" 

I feign innocence. "Who?" 

"You know perfectly well who!" my friend whispers. "That handsome man who challenged Mr. Pirelli." 

I can barely contain a blush. Of course he is rather good-looking, but hearing Henrietta speaking of it in public is quite awkward. "Yes, I know him. He lives in above Mrs. Lovett's shop." To my utmost relief, I at least sound calmer than I feel. 

Upon seeing the look on my face, Henrietta grins slyly. "So you fancy him, do you?" 

I blanch. 

"It's quite all right," my friend says. "He's not my type, really. I prefer fairer hair." She winks. "So do not fret. You can have him all to yourself." 

"Don't be silly," I mutter. "I believe you have been reading way too many dime novels, Henrietta. Nothing of the sort will happen, I promise you that." 

We direct our attention back towards the stage, where the crowd slowly begins to disperse and become less interested in the past proceedings. Mr. Todd is speaking to someone else, but he is indeed facing my direction so I attempt to tilt my head in an effort to conceal my face under the bonnet. 

I dare not look at him. If he's anything like others I know, he may suspect something if he feels as if he's being watched. 

And only as I think of that sort of sense one has in that situation, that the hairs on the back of my neck stand in end. Speak of the Devil…

Venturing a tentative look in Mr. Todd's direction, I am startled to find that his gaze is directed straight at me. 

Henrietta nudges me, grinning smugly. "I told you that wearing that dress was a good idea. He's captivated, that is certain." 

But that's not quite the expression that I detect. It looks more as if he's seeing a ghost. 

But I'm not the one to take any chances. The last thing that I want him to do is react in a way that would let Mrs. Lovett know I'm here. Without a word to my friend, I turn on my heel and sprint back through the crowd towards the pie shop, not taking a single glance behind me. 

"Lottie, wait!" Henrietta pants, attempting to catch up with me but being hindered by her heavy dress. 

I slow down just enough for her to trot alongside me, but I still hasten back to Fleet Street as quickly as possible. 

"What on earth has gotten into you?" She inquires breathlessly. "That man you fancy has just noticed you, for goodness sakes. Is that not a _good _thing?" 

"Look, Henrietta," I say tensely. "I was supposed to be alone watching the shop. If he sees me out…" I trail off, letting my friend figure out the rest. 

"Ah." I feel that it is the shortest sentence that I've ever heard my friend say. Her face is drawn into a frown, and her eyes lose a bit of their happiness. "I suppose you're right after all." 

Briskly, we stride the rest of the way home without another word. It seems that the both of us feel a similar sense of disappointment as we part ways at last, but Henrietta promises fervently that she will come and visit again. 

And much earlier than I anticipated, I find myself sitting alone in the pie shop once more. Near overcome with relief that I'd gotten away with my little venture, I collapse onto a stool only to remember that I must change back into my own clothing before Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd come back. 

In the privacy of my own room, I change quickly, and none too soon. For when I finally stuff the dress and bonnet into my trunk and poke my head out of the door I could hear their voices in the shop already. 

"Oh, Mr. T, don't be ridiculous!" I hear Mrs. Lovett fussing. "You can't have seen her, she's dead." 

"Who?" I call. I'm curious. Sauntering into the pie shop as casually as I can, I come upon Mrs. Lovett seating Mr. Todd on a stray stool. Looking at our resident barber I notice that his face, though usually pale, is now even paler than it is normally. 

Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Mr. Todd thinks he's seen his dead wife. Why don't you let him be, Lottie dear, he must still be taking this awfully hard." 

A sickening feeling is in the pit of my stomach. "Sorry. When was this?" I venture timidly. 

"While we were out," Mrs. Lovett says shortly. But she lowers her voice. "You should have seen his face though. Looked like he'd seen a ghost, he did."

"It _was_ her," Mr. Todd says almost feverishly, not even meeting our eyes. "I saw her. Wearing the same clothes she wore when they took me away." 

"It was only a face in the crowd, though, from a great distance away. It could have been anyone."

Oh yes, It could have been anyone. Including me. 

I'm not so sure how for that matter, but it sort of makes sense. Since Benjamin Barker and his wife used to live here… what if some of their belongings never left the building? A pretty dress like the one Henrietta and I found would have easily caught Mrs. Lovett's eye when it was hers for the taking, but she'd have abandoned it once it became so extremely out of fashion. 

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Lovett peers at me quizzically. "You're awful quiet." 

Please do not let her suspect. "I-I'm fine," I stammer quietly, earning a strange look from everyone else in the room. "But I'm afraid I do not feel well, so if you would excuse me, I would like very much to retire." 

Standing somewhat shakily, I walk back to my closet room rather self consciously. If I go away too quickly they might be sure something is up with me, but I am certainly not inclined to linger. 

"I'll bring you supper, dear," Mrs. Lovett calls after me. "Rest should do you plenty of good." 

I sigh in relief in the solitude of my room, lying down on my mattress and twirling a hit pin in my hands. I'm grateful that they bought what I took to be a rather obvious lie, but when I really think I realize that the trouble's not quite over.

It is imperative that I remove the borrowed clothing from my quarters. If my host were to find out…

Well we can safely say that since she showed so much kindness by taking me in, stealing her spare clothing is a poor way to repay her. 

So after stuffing the items hastily into my trunk, I wait in silence for an opportunity to arise. Hours pass, and though I have no vision of the outside from here I assume the sun must be sinking lower. 

Cautiously opening the door a crack and peeking out, I find the hallway dark and the shop closed. Is this my chance? It had better be, because I quickly grab the dress and bonnet, taking off my shoes to dampen the sound of my feet on the floor. After lighting a candle with trembling hands, I slink out of the door.

Tiptoeing down the narrow hallway, I do my very best not to shiver at the eerie shadows that I see as a result of the dim candle light. 

_It's only the home you've been walking in for months, silly,_ I scold myself. _It's certainly no more dangerous than it is in the daytime! _But as it usually happens, I cannot console myself. I still have the problem of stowing away the clothing in Mrs. Lovett's room while she's still asleep. As I can remember, the hinges of the wardrobe are far from silent. 

Still pondering, I enter the parlor, adjusting the pile of clothing in my hand to make sure not to drop it. 

But the back of my neck prickles uncomfortably, and I have a most horrible feeling that I am being watched. Stopping dead in my tracks, I look quickly from left to right but there's no one to be seen. Slowly, I turn on me heel and face the direction I came. 

And the door from which I entered swings shut, closing with a creak of the unoiled hinges and revealing the dark figure whose eyes are trained on me. 

"You." His voice is a low whisper, and I do my best to stifle a small scream. 

There, standing in the shadows with a look of sheer hatred on his pale face, is Mr. Todd. 


End file.
